The Domestication of a Wild Rose
by CognacGirl-CG
Summary: FutureAU'ish. After losing everything, Sydney disappears. Sark shows up unexpectedly and disrupts her solitude. Sarkney with a hint of Simon. (2 of 2 - up May 15th)
1. The Savage

Title: The Domestication of a Wild Rose

Author: CG

Feedback: Would love to hear what you have to say. If criticism, please make it constructive.

Disclaimer: Alias is owned by ABC, Touchstone, and is the creation of JJ Abrams and Bad Robot productions. Nor do I own anything pertaining to The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exupéry.

Spoilers: S3 – besides one spec in Part Two, nothing that hasn't aired in the U.S. so far. 

Summary: Future fic/AU. After losing everything, Sydney disappears. Sark shows up unexpectedly and disrupts her solitude. 

My submission for sarkastic's Sarkney ficathon on LiveJournal. Written for randomeliza who asked for a fic with: 

Timeline: any sort of AU -- let's say a Season 3 where Lauren doesn't exist and Simon is still alive.   
Up to Three Things You Want to See in the Fic: Sark in black leather & eyeliner, a mission involving a knife-fight, and a threesome with Simon (that last one is optional, but I'd really love it)  
Up to Three Things You Don't Want to See in the Fic: Any hint that Lauren even exists, any S/V overtones or undertones, and the phrase "Sark smirked" or any variant thereof. And it should be obvious that bad grammar/spelling is the #1 thing I don't want to see in the fic. 

I think I've safely added and avoided most of what you asked, but please forgive me for any grammatical errors, for they are indeed mine. Quotes from the book The Little Prince are in italics and/or quotes. 

Ship: Sarkney with a hint of Simon.

Rating: R – for sexual situations and violence in Part Two

**Part One: The Savage **

_Volume VI, Day 646_

_Snow: 7"_

_High Temperature: -4__° F_

_Crack in the ceiling: 4.25" length  .5" wide (moving slightly south now)_

_Spent most of the day looking back through last winter's entries, making comparisons of snowfall and temperature last year to my calculations of this year so far. Seems much colder than I remember winter ever being. Turns out I was right – two more inches of snow has fallen this year, and the temperature has chilled by the same number of degrees. _

_Ventured outside to gather more wood and was nearly swallowed by the deep blanket of snow. Instead of getting up in a hurry, I just lay there in the midst of the never-ending snowstorm, flat on my face with one boot sucked completely off my foot. Encased in snow, socked foot freezing, shut off from the world, seemed even more peaceful than any of these days in seclusion – almost like a freefall on a cloudy day. _

_It was the first time I think I've laughed in about six months – since I made the journey to Basel to watch football, I think. _

_Sinking like a dead weight into the belly of the snow beast reminded me of the book again, so I opened it and began reading, for about the hundredth time, the words that I have memorized. _

_Tonight is supposed to be the pinnacle of the storm. Already I can hear the winds whipping up through these walls. Hopefully it will die down enough by the end of the week so I can make the trip into town for supplies. _

_"No, no, no! I do not want an elephant inside a boa constrictor. A boa constrictor is a very dangerous creature, and an elephant is very cumbersome." – _The Little Prince,Ch. 2__

Sydney leaned back in her folding chair as she shut her journal, tracing the embossed wolf on the brown leather cover. She was being wistful again, thinking about better times that were best forgotten, and she needed to end the futility.

A good hour still remained before she'd usually move to the back of the small cottage to read in bed until she drifted off, and the last thing she wanted to do was mess up her routine. But she had a feeling that if she didn't move, if she let the memories send her off into a tailspin of sorrow, regrets, and things left unsaid – and undone – then she was sure to be up all night, working herself into a complete wreck by morning. 

She hadn't done that in over a year.

So, instead, Sydney would just stick with what she knew. The rite of telling her day to the only person she could – an inanimate one, yes, but perfectly acceptable in her opinion. Once her records were penned, she would douse the oil lamp she kept in the small front room to write by, gather her latest choice of books, and cozy up under flannel sheets and a plush down comforter. She would clear her thoughts, live with her many regrets, briefly remember in her prayers those who were no longer living – everyone – and by tomorrow, just like the storm was expected to, this feeling would pass. 

Her bare feet padded across the wood floor, the creaking and groaning of planks beneath her feet a part of her routine. She safely navigated the front room in the dark, guided by the faint light coming from the fire burning in her room, and made it down the twenty feet of hallway, leaving the door open just a crack behind her. The blazing fire danced and crackled in the cove on the north end of her bedroom, greeting and wishing her goodnight in the same smoky breath. The flames usually expired around one, but the effect normally lingered in the room until dawn. 

After removing her terrycloth robe and hanging it neatly on the bedpost, she slid inside her turned-down bed in only her sweatpants and thermal tee. Settling back against the propped up pillows, she found her spot in the cushiony mattress, then adjusted the oil lamp next to her bed to her liking. 

Content with her nightly routine, Sydney then opened the book her father had given her when she was eight and started the third chapter. 

_It took me a long time to learn where he came from. The little prince, who asked me so many questions, never seemed to hear the ones I asked him…_

***

Sydney came awake to the stark darkness of midnight. Strange, she thought as she curled comfortably on her side and tucked her blankets more snugly around her body. Rarely had there been a night in the past year that she'd been started awake.

She let out a deep, disconcerted breath as she nestled her cheek into her flannel pillowcase to get comfy again, closing her eyes once satisfied. 

Her ease lasted less than a minute before she heard it – _thump. _It was muted, barely discernible from this far point in the cottage, but her cursed – blessed – trained ear picked up the sound. 

Heart pounding, Sydney pulled her Browning from beneath her pillow, cocking it immediately as she stood into her boot slippers. Hardly making any sound, thankful she knew exactly where to step on the old boards, she moved across the room, down the hall, and adjusted her vision to the front room. 

There were no shadows besides those from the bare-boned setting of her living room.

Sidestepping with extreme care to keep her presence unknown, Sydney sidled down the wall of the hallway before peeking around the corner into the narrow kitchen. Empty. 

Panic relented only slightly in her body with the knowledge that an unknown assailant hadn't infiltrated her cottage – yet. She knew for a fact that she'd heard something, and at this elevation, at this time of night in a storm so furious even animals heeded its wrath, that something wasn't good.

When she reached the front door, gun trained at head level, Sydney held herself immobile for a single heartbeat. What was waiting beyond that door? she wondered. Had the Covenant finally become ingenious enough to track her and had sent a surprise lackey? Or maybe Sloane had decided to finish all of this himself? 

All were definite possibilities. Either way, this fear needed to end. If this was how she was going out, so be it. She was ready. 

Wrapping steady fingers around the knob, Sydney popped the lock then yanked open the lightweight door, standing behind it for cover. Her arm thrust out into the blackness, the white snow dull with no moon to reflect, ready for battle. 

She crept from behind the door and froze when she stepped outside. The bite of wind that met her was so harsh that it took her breath and sent a brutal shiver down her entire body. 

It was so cold outside – with not even a robe to shield her a little from the storm – that Sydney could barely move. The snow was falling fast and frantically, and was so dense that she couldn't see more than an inch from the tip of her nose. 

No one sane would be out tonight. Then again, those who would try to look for her were usually anything but. 

The anticipated sound of yelling words of forcing surrender or flashes and claps of gunfire didn't come; nothing did. She was standing in at least three inches of fresh snow in her sweats and slippers, feeling like an overreacting idiot. 

Wouldn't be the first time, she thought dejectedly. 

Just as she turned to step back in, she heard it again – _thump_. Her head and gun whipped to the sound and a shadow. Dark, prone in a deepening hole of snow, inches away from the wall shielding her front room was a person. 

The _thump _sounded again, and she realized the person was sluggishly lifting a fist, trying to find the effort to knock, yet the best they could produce was a strong tap. Well, at least she had heard it. 

Sydney swallowed around the tight knot of fear in her throat and cautiously stepped closer. Too afraid to leave the gun behind, she let it hang loosely at her side. The dark lump stayed still, unmoving except for a visibly twitching arm.  

She bent to touch the form, prodding what appeared to be a shoulder with three of her fingers. The person wasn't dead, yet, but instinctively she still questioned whether this was all an act. A second later, oblivious to her presence and as if on automatic pilot, the arm lifted again and beat on the iced wall. 

Her feet had numbed in the freezing temperatures, the chilled sheepskin lining of her slippers was soaked with snow and abrading the skin above her sock, but she barely noticed. Her hands, too, were cold, stiff around her weapon, and red, but they didn't warrant a passing thought. 

What was a person doing out in this abominable weather, in the lower foothills of Switzerland with no transportation in sight, wearing threadbare clothing?

The question went unanswered as she hooked her arms underneath wide manly shoulders and carefully dragged the body, the man, through the snow and inside. 

By the time Sydney had the door bolted behind her, she was tight with tension and fear. Her fingers barely wanted to cooperate, useless frozen sticks on the end of her large hands, and her feet had yet to warm any on the thin rug. She rushed to her card table, careful to avoid the patch of floor where she'd dumped the man, easily finding the box of matches to light the room. 

The faint light illuminated the room and the man lying on his side. The dancing flame made his shadow tremble and shake in a grand illusion. Only when she peered closer, did she realize it was the combination of shade, trickery, and reality – for the man's body, too, had a fine tremor about it. The abrupt change of temperature had already initiated some havoc on his chilled body. 

Grabbing a handkerchief from her desk, Sydney tried to formulate the best plan for getting this man back on the road to wellness. It had been so long since she'd had to prepare for such a thing, but immediately a list began forming in her head. 

_Towels, blankets, hot water bottles, firewood, liquor…_

She wasn't equipped with much for this kind of injury, but for the sake of this man, she'd work with what she did have. 

Curling the loose strands from her ponytail behind her ears, Sydney squatted next to the form, not knowing where to begin. His dark body was covered with packed snow and ice from head to toe, so she started by loosening the stiff scarf around his neck and tossing it to the side. 

She fanned the melting slush off his reddened cheeks with the kerchief, his beard and mustache, too – hair that covered most of his firm jaw and upper lip – and then wiped the shards of ice off his forehead and stocking cap. Little liquefied rivulets started to trail off him, soaking into the rug and pooling on the old boards. 

When she gingerly wiped his blue-tinted chapped lips, the sight of a familiar face – worn down, swollen, battered, and slightly aged, but familiar all the same – struck her. She instantly pushed herself away from him, clumsily scrambling back to the wall and gulping in air around the pounding of her panicking heart. 

Sark. 

Her first thought was to flee – run again, even if it was impossible. Her second thought was to scoot into a corner in hidden view of the front door and wait for the rest of the team that had likely accompanied him, prepared to put up her best fight. Her third thought brought her back to the man, Sark, and the fact that he was an immobile Popsicle on her floor. 

She rose up to her knees and drew closer again, more guarded than when she thought him a stranger. A second look at his pale face suggested he was not an immediate threat, but that still didn't stop her from emotionally recoiling from the task at hand. 

In the end it was that side of her, that foolishly compassionate side she rarely ever used anymore, that won. 

Accepting the fact that she would likely regret it in the end, Sydney blew out a breath as she hefted him up again. Sark made no protest, not one sound, as she shuffled the weight that felt far too dead for her liking down the narrow hallway. 

When she set him on the floor of her room, he stirred slightly, groaning and curling up into a ball to gather warmth. She found an old blanket in her closet and covered him up for now, then moved to gather the remaining items she needed. Pausing at the door, she turned around to look back at the shivering body. 

Two years ago, this man wouldn't have even made it across her threshold without a struggle. Yet today she was stunned to find a spark somewhere deep inside herself, a part of her that liked to be of help to someone again, even if it was to someone who had been proved an enemy. 

_Compassion is a killer_, her sensible side warned her softer side. But she knew that she couldn't have lived with herself if she'd left him outdoors in the storm to die. Plus, the inquisitor in her was quite curious to know why he was here and how he'd found her. 

She bit down on her lip to keep her mouth closed, determined not to voice her fears and frustration. An unconscious man couldn't offer her any answers. 

She sighed instead. "'Why should any one be frightened by a hat?'" Sydney whispered to herself as she backed the rest of the way out of the room to prepare a few hot water bottles. Maybe the boa constrictor had already eaten and therefore would find no interest in her. 

And maybe single roses really did grow on asteroids. 

                                                                                              ***

Sydney poked at the glowing red and black embers in the fireplace before stacking kindling on top, recounting what had transpired over the past two hours. Three o'clock now and the cottage sat quiet once more, the sparks of thought in her brain accompanied only by the crackling of wood igniting. Placing a few logs on the burning fire, she wiped her hands on her robe and turned toward the bed where he lay.

She was struck anew at how different he looked. And that was without the bruising, the scarring, and the abrasions she'd found when she'd undressed him. 

His appearance was wild, more unkempt than she'd ever thought possible for the man who wore a fitted suit better than most others could. The smooth-faced young man was now rugged and hairy, fatigued and a little frail – even his neat fair head had changed. Matted to his head now instead of styled, longer and straggly just past the tip of his ears, his hair was dull – a light blond now closer to the shade of dishwater than the bright gold of two years ago. 

It was another piece added to his unsolved rebus.

When she'd peeled the long drab coat from him, then the under layer – not multiple layerslike most intelligent men would see to wear in this weather – she'd gotten a peek at what this man had been up to the past few weeks, maybe even months. All she could do was speculate, which had been her only device since he couldn't tell her himself. 

Once nude, she had intently studied the chiseled male who seemed terribly thin and whose skin had grown a bit pasty from a short period without sufficient nourishment. Bruises marred his body; a large mass pointing to a dislocated shoulder, more sets pointing to kicks to the abdomen and kidneys. Angry cuts randomly adorned his skin, beet red and some even flowing anew as the room steadily warmed. 

And last, but not least, she saw two gauzed but feebly treated bullet wounds. 

She'd looked at the maroon stained bandage on his thigh and found another wrapped sloppily around his upper arm. Circular burns – cigar? – decorated his thighs and wrists, wounds old enough to have grown crusty and near black. Her assessment had moved back up and her eyes had momentarily cut to his vapid manhood nestled in a tuft of light hair, laying lax between pale thighs, before she shook her head in embarrassment and looked instead at the jagged lines decorating his chest. She would clean what she could, apply some salve, and would have to leave the rest up to him. 

He hadn't stirred much when she worked off his boots and wool socks to finish shucking his pants and boxers, or even when she'd toweled the thick moisture off his body before moving him to her bed. But his fine tremor had graduated to an uncontrollable shiver, teeth chattering even though she'd spread the blanket back over him. 

After situating him on a few towels in her bed, she'd prepared the hot water bottle she had, setting the remainder of water heated on the small gas stove in a small tub. She strategically set the water bottle next to him for additional warmth, then soaked a hand towel and washed his body, trying to make it come to life again. 

Her fears had intensified when she'd finished with his legs and found his body still mostly blue-white. His hands and feet were no healthier, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't flush any blood under his skin. 

So, she'd piled the down comforter and blankets on him, all that she could find in her closets, and sat in the hard straight back chair in the corner of her room, watching and waiting. And wondering. 

Where had he been? she wondered. What was he doing here?

His clothes, strewn over a chair in front of the fire to dry, had been torn and were as tattered as his body. On his back, she'd found a knapsack filled with a frozen bottle of water, a few energy bars, pocket change, and a weapon – no extra ammo. As a precaution, she'd tucked the weapon away in her hidden compartment, and the remaining items had been placed on the night table next to him. 

His uncharacteristic lack of preparation surprised and intrigued her. It went against everything she'd ever thought about the man. 

And what was worse, Sydney mused, was the thought that he'd expended his last ounce of strength to find her. That thought only spurred her confusion and surprise. 

She stood for the fifth time in an hour and went to the bed, placing a soft hand on his forehead. Still cold as ice. 

"Come on, Sark," she mumbled on a sigh. "It'll kill me to waste a good two days worth of journal entries speculating, if you don't tell me why you're here."

There was nothing more she could do but wait. Actually, there was one more thing she knew about, but she wasn't quite sure if she was up to it after having no contact whatsoever with the outside world or even one person in such a long time. She filed the thought away as a last resort. 

Settling in the chair, tucking her feet under her Indian style, she opened her book and read again. 

_I had thus learned a second fact of great importance: this was that the planet the little prince came from was scarcely any larger than a house! _

***

_Volume VI, Day 647_

_Snow: 10"_

_High Temperature: -4__° F still_

_Crack in the ceiling: same as day before._

_It appears my period of solitude has ended. My surprise visitor stumbled unconsciously upon my doorstep shortly after midnight. _

_He had a shaky night. It wasn't until three hours after arriving and he was still bluish – his lips trembling and brows tight in pain – that I forced myself to touch him. All medical documentation states body heat is the best at thwarting hypothermia, but for the life of me, I was scared. _

_Sure, it seems like such a minor decision to most, but this is Sark. Sark of the murderous and sometimes volatile behavior, Sark the sworn enemy funding and aligned with the Covenant, Sark the man who always seems to disrupt my life, destroy my plans. Appear so suddenly and turn everything upside down._

_He'd accomplished the last again, but for some reason I have a feeling his intentions aren't hostile. _

_I lay with him underneath all those blankets until morning, his icy back pressed to my front. He felt so cold and lifeless in my arms – if he hadn't been trembling and slightly warming with each hour that passed, I would have thought him losing the battle. _

_I think I fell asleep around a half hour before dawn, waking in the early afternoon to find our positions reversed. One of his hands had snaked around my waist, while the other was twined in and clinging tightly to my hair. His warm arm automatically flexed against me as I tried to leave the bed, but quickly let me loose after a bit more resistance. _

_I've had to force my feelings to stay neutral about this. Knowing this is a normal reaction one feels after having little contact with anything or anyone familiar. But damn if I wasn't comfortable in his arms. _

_He's been quiet all day, murmuring only senseless thoughts in his strained sleep. I've had problems giving him liquids, but he accepts a little, which I suppose is a good sign. And I've had to take away most of his covers for now, since he's switched to the other extreme and seems to be running a fever._

_Now I just sit in the chair and wait for him to wake. Wait for him to be coherent enough to answer my many questions. _

_…it is on account of the grown-ups and their ways. When you tell them that you have made a new friend, they never ask you any questions about essential matters. They never say to you, "What does his voice sound like? What games does he love best? Does he collect butterflies?" – _The Little Prince,Ch4

***

His body began convulsing again just after midnight. She'd been sound asleep on the pallet she'd set next to her bed when his hoarse voice sounded out and her bed began to shake. First, she'd thrown back the blankets and grabbed a tub full of cold water, sponging his brow and bathing his body with cool cloths. Then a short time later, she wrapped his body in the soft blankets once the chills retook him. 

The two polar maladies of cold and infection rendered a deadly mix in his weak body. Even though she'd managed to get him to swallow one dose of penicillin earlier, she knew it'd likely not even scratch the surface of the illness that brewed dangerously in his body. The sores from his bullet wounds had been re-cleaned, drained, and covered anew, but that had done nothing for the days he'd gone without care. 

He'd thrashed and twisted so hard in a vain attempt to allay the assault of the fever that tortured him that she had to restrain him herself. Clad only in her pajamas, Sydney had eased onto the bed and wrapped herself around him, drawing him back tightly against her. 

Cradling him in her arms as he jerked and shuddered, she rested her chin gently on his head, as her fingers pushed damp tendrils of hair from his brow. Until the early hours of the morning, she tried to call him back from that dark place that held him. 

And that was where she stayed, coaxing and soothing, until he was calm once more and she had drifted off to sleep. 

                                                                                              ***

_Volume VI, Day 648_

_Snow: 10" still_

_High Temperature: -3__° F _

_Crack in the ceiling: 4.35" length  .5" wide (still moving slightly south)_

_I have a new routine now. It consists of my old routine, but also has additional duties that need my attention. _

_At around five o'clock today his fever broke. He spent the hours before in and out of blind consciousness – eyes open, but unseeing. Grimaces of pain and distress heavily marked his expressions and the twists of his body, and his words… _

_"I'm sorry." He seemed to repeat again and again, mixed with a "no" or an occasional "please". It was the "please" that caught my interest above all else. So anguished and heartfelt. Like he was begging for it all to just end. _

_It hurt me to hear words so familiar. Just under two years ago, I'd been there myself in a different capacity. Or maybe similar, I still don't know. _

_But finally, just when I thought I'd no longer be able to take his misery, his demeanor changed. His jaw clamped shut, hands clenched into fists, his ragged breathing escalated until his body stretched taut with the force of exorcism. Then it broke. His skin grew wet, a fine mist of sheen formed on his forehead and upper body, and then after a few minutes he relaxed into the damp mattress. _

_"I'm sorry," he whispered one last time, before I drew the blanket over him again and let him sleep. _

_It's almost midnight and he's still sleeping off the exhaustion, will likely keep on until late morning. I'm too keyed up to sleep, for tomorrow will bring me some much anticipated answers from him. I can only imagine what the nature of the answers will be. _

_Indeed, as I learned, there were on the planet where the little prince lived--as on all planets--good plants and bad plants. In consequence, there were good seeds from good plants, and bad seeds from bad plants. But seeds are invisible. They sleep deep in the heart of the earth's darkness, until some one among them is seized with the desire to awaken. – _The Little Prince,Ch_ 5_

***__

_"This flower is a very complex creature . . ."_

Sydney meandered out of the kitchen over to the front window, feeling overly anxious. She drew back the thin curtain to survey the intense white blanket of snow, hoping to find a way to end this preoccupation with the questions she planned to ask Sark once he woke. 

Sighing, she looked from the overcast sky to her watch. Minutes past eleven and still he slept. 

She'd checked on him twice so far, just to make sure fluid hadn't filled his lungs and hindered his breathing, and to ensure he had completely rid himself of the fever. Both times, she hoped to see him stir or even find him wide awake, but the most he offered in her presence was a sonorous breath or a quiet grumble of discomfort. 

She ought to be a relatively patient person by now, considering she'd been living a simple life for almost two years. But instead of the calm, collected person she should be, Sydney found herself worrying on her lower lip and needing to know the time every five minutes.

Letting go of the sheer material in her fingers, she rested her forehead against the cold window, fogging up a small circle in the glass with her breath. Wake up, she thought as her eyes closed, tempted to beat her head against the glass in beat to the two-word phrase. The curtain slid back into place around her just as the soft rustle of material and the creak of her mattress springs caught her attention. 

She blinked to center herself, preparing for the impending confrontation. Her fingers smoothed out invisible wrinkles on her thin sweater, and she consciously curled her loose light brown strands behind both ears. 

Nervousness stirred in her stomach, knowing the time had finally come. Taking a deep breath, knowing she was as ready as she'd ever be, she moved back from the window. 

Determination marked her steps as she walked down the hallway filled with an overwhelming sense of anxiety. Answers, they were way overdue. Arms crossed across her chest, obstinately guarded and challenging, she stepped through the door. 

Sydney stopped mid-step when she entered the room. He faced away from her, still nude and sitting awkwardly on the bed. His firm back muscles drew tight from the strain of holding his position, but overall he still seemed weak, with a slight waver in his posture.

As if sensing her presence, Sark cast a glance over his shoulder. When he saw her watching, mouth open to speak but no sound emitting, he leisurely grabbed for the sheet to wrap around his waist. 

"You're awake," Sydney stated foolishly. 

He let out a labored sigh and scratched his shaggy curls. _Obviously, Ms. Bristow_, he seemed to be saying. Grimacing, he leaned forward in preparation for standing up, one of his hands braced on the nightstand for assistance. Sydney took a few steps toward him to help, but was stopped with one disconcerting glare. 

"Don't." He told her firmly as he found a shaky balance on his feet. 

An unexpected jolt rocked her when her gaze locked with those startling eyes, a total lack of contrition in the man's regard as he stared at her with an expression both blatant and annoyed. 

"Sark, you need h – "

"No. I don't." His rough voice and curt manner ruffled her after all she'd done to get him well, but she easily kept it from showing. "I can stand just fine on my own," he added, a bit strained. 

He shifted unsteadily on his feet, taking a brief inventory of the small room before he moved. She expected him to stumble, even just slightly, but with each painstaking step that he took, he continued to stay upright. Using the wall as his only aid, he slowly reached the foot of the bed where she stood. 

One of his hands gripped the sturdy footboard while the other stayed fisted on the wad of material shielding his lower body from her view. After all these years, he still unnerved her, his ominous height and dark looming aura was still rather imposing. 

He looked down at her blankly before clearing his throat. "Bathroom?" he asked, immediately averting his eyes. 

Nervously twisting her sweater sleeve around a finger, Sydney backed away, trying not to bumble over her words. "Oh. Yes. Um –" she headed toward the door and looked back to find him following. "The only other door in the hallway," she confirmed, and watched him venture inside. 

Sark was just about to shut the door when she cut him off with her palm flat on the wood. 

"Are you okay?" she asked quietly, the purposely vague question lingering in a string of silence. 

He faced her with his jaw set, but when his eyes flicked down to his marked chest, the pain of remembrance momentarily darkened his already torrent gaze and tautened his expression. 

Sydney waited for him to speak, but to her frustration, Sark didn't voice the origin or the depths of the demon barely contained within him. He merely forced the door shut over the weight of her hand, leaving her standing in the silent hallway with her mouth open and, more absurdly, her feelings hurt. 

                                                                                              ***

_Volume VI, Day 649_

_Snow: 9"_

_High Temperature: -4__° F _

_Crack in the ceiling: 4.72" length  .6" wide (still moving in the same direction)_

_Today was a busy one. Physically draining as well as emotionally. _

_I never did find out anything from Sark in the short period he was awake. His only requests to me before he retired for the rest of the day, and now the night, were a hot bath and some broth. _

_I had gone outside to gather more wood for the night when he must have finished bathing, then crawled onto my uncomfortable pallet and drifted back off to sleep. _

_It was odd being in such small confines with another, even if one of us was conscious to only eat and bathe, yet not speaking more that a few sentences. A part of me felt the need to push answers out of him, a part that was of the Sydney-Bristow-pre-seclusion-in-Switzerland kind, while the other part of me felt a bit of pity for him. _

_That look in his eyes when I asked about his wellness still haunts me. It was a mix of red, black, and a deep burgundy. Anger, hatred, and blood. Mix them together and you have a heady concoction  – vengeance. Finally, my first clue. _

_He has a proposition for me. I can feel it. I'll give him another day to recoup some of his strength and gather his wits before I take a more demanding approach to this situation. _

_Whether he's decided to test my abilities to see if I've grown inept in my time away, or wants to feel me out before approaching me with his plans, by the time he leaves here, there will be confidences shared, offers stated, words that are meant to be convincing spoken, and maybe…_

_Maybe I'll be leaving, too. _

_As I said at the beginning, today was busy and draining. Tomorrow, for completely different reasons than today, will be much worse. _

_"Well, I must endure the presence of two or three caterpillars if I wish to become acquainted with the butterflies." – _The Little Prince,Ch9__

                                                                                              ***

Sydney woke at dawn, reaching for the book of matches on her nightstand and lighting the oil lamp as she slipped out of bed. Crossing to the other side of the room, she grabbed her laid-out clothing, her boots, and her Browning, then crept silently out the bedroom door. 

While she got dressed, she mentally ticked off the items left to do before she'd be free to leave. Since she wouldn't be back until after dark, and had had no chance to forewarn Sark, there was much left to accomplish. She busied herself making a detailed list in case he needed assistance with maintaining fires, heating water, and things of the like. Then set out some towels, the instant coffee canister, and enough fixings for all of his meals. 

List complete and note left in plain sight, she moved back toward the bedroom. Sark still lay in the same position as he had when she woke, sleeping soundly on his side atop the pallet. 

Watching him from the doorway, Sydney tried to envision him as the man he was back when she was employed by SD-6 and later with the CIA. For some reason beyond her early morning comprehension, the image was now blurred, flawed not just by his physical changes, but by the weakness he'd shown her in his current predicament. Revelations like the one she witnessed now – him so at peace while he slept, eyelids drooped lazily, breathing strong, deep, and steady, his entire body relaxed – helped to shed new light on the man she once thought beyond redemption. 

He still was, and, by his own volition, would always be a few degrees away from salvation, but there was something more substantial to him now. A side effect of oppression, betrayal, and torture. She'd never underestimate a man like him,but in her mind, he would never again be that near-infallible man of years ago. 

Her mind whirled in speculation until Sark shifted in his sleep, breaking the spell. Today wasn't his day, or even hers. She had more important respects to pay. 

The night before, she had packed up all of her weapons, including the one that he'd brought, tucking them away in her knapsack. To that, she'd added money, a few books, the pamphlet for the museum in Charmey, and the keys to her snowmobile and cottage. 

A good hour after waking, she was fully dressed in full winter wear. Sydney took the bag from underneath her bedcovers and set off into the dark skies of early morning.  

_For she did not want him to see her crying. She was such a proud flower . . ._

***__

_Volume VI, Day 650_

_It's been two years, Daddy. I miss you._

***__

_"Where are the men? It is a little lonely in the desert . . ." _

_"It is also lonely among men," _

Wondering if she'd have the willpower to confront Sark even if he decided to avoid her today, Sydney looked at her watch with a sigh, then blinked and looked again. Another sigh sent her warm breath clashing with the cold outside and swirling up in a cloud of smoky condensation. 

It was after ten in the morning. He'd been sleeping for almost twelve hours. 

Last night, when she had returned just after eleven, he'd been on the pallet again, out like a light. She'd checked for signs that he had left the bed during the day, her first concern that he was becoming sick again. To her relief, she had found food eaten and the items she'd left out for him put back in their rightful places. Both fireplaces even held raging fires, a sign that he'd retired shortly before her arrival. 

She sipped from her hot mug and savored the zing of her favorite tea. After two drinks, she set it aside and picked up the paper she'd bought in town, reading up on the happenings in the quaint mountain village and wishing for an interruption. 

A whisper of movement from behind caught her attention, as if right on cue with her thoughts. In an effort to appear impassive, she sat still on the large log turned bench and focused straight ahead – out to the start of trees just beyond her land and the snow flurries whirling lightly in the air. 

Dressed in the clothes that she'd purchased at the ski shop in town, he strolled over to where she rested and sat beside her, cup of coffee on his knee. His dark down jacket rustled as he awkwardly adjusted to a more comfortable position. 

In companionable silence, they drank, neither paying much mind to the other. 

Only when she'd emptied her mug did she speak. "It's probably not a good idea for you to stay out here too long. Should we go in?" __

Sark tugged the scarf he wore tighter around his neck, crossing his arms over his chest for warmth. His tired eyes squinted as he looked out into the distance, the white snow and capped green trees seeming to capture his interest. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and he seemed uncomfortable, a hint of pink tinting his cheeks either from the cold or maybe even slight embarrassment. Years ago, if she'd seen him like this out of his immaculate element she would have found it humorous. 

Today, Sydney wasn't laughing. 

"We do need to talk. Inside of course," he replied hoarsely. Then, as if he was thinking aloud, he added, "The fresh air out here is quite invigorating after being inside for long. I might take a few moments first." 

She nodded, watching his eyes dart around and take in the winter surroundings. 

"Of course," she responded. 

A few moments later, she stood, slipping the paper under her arm and picking up both mugs. Sark didn't make a move to do the same, so she headed back inside. When she reached the door, he called out to her. 

"Sydney?" 

She stalled just before the door, but didn't turn around. Seconds passed and her gaze slued to his back. Still peering out at the landscape, she heard him clear his throat and speak with a clarity that was startling, considering how rough his voice had been moments before. 

"Thank you."

                                                                                              ***

_"But what does that mean--'ephemeral'?" _

_"It means, 'which is in danger of speedy disappearance.'" _

_"Is my flower in danger of speedy disappearance?" _

_"Certainly it is."_

"They kept me in confinement for three months." 

Sark spoke slowly as he picked at the Cobb salad she'd made, his voice monotone, words eerily detached, like being held by the Covenant for that span of time was nothing. Three months of enduring their methods of torture was anything but – she knew. 

"I had information they wanted that I wasn't ready to offer up, and they had no plans of letting me go until I did."

Her fork in mid-air, Sydney raised a questioning brow. "Information?"

He lifted his eyes to her in a furtive glance that sparked her suspicion. Instead of answering, he startled her by standing with his plate and leaving her at the table by herself. She watched as he rinsed his plate and set it to dry on the drying rack, wondering what he was hiding from her. 

As she finished her last few bites, he returned with an open bottle of Chablis and two glasses in his hand. He paused to fill her glass before his own and took his chair once again. 

Interesting, she mused as she tipped her glass back for a swallow. Resorting to bribery with wine.  Her eyes narrowed as she watched him drink his own. 

"After concentrating my efforts, it took me six months to find you."

She choked at the frightening absurdity of that statement. Only six months?

Thankfully, Sark continued. Seconds more and she would be in the midst of a coughing fit. "One of my contacts must have leaked to one of the other cell members that I was searching for you. Before I knew it, I was ambushed in a meeting set up by our cell in South America and taken to a center in Darbonnay."

She barely caught the tail end of his sentence. Six months _and_ the Covenant had found out he was looking for her. Why wasn't she dead already?

She searched his eyes and asked, "How? I mean, how did you find me?"

Her mouth gaped slightly in awe, she still couldn't believe it, and Sark had the couth to not laugh at her expense. Almost two years and no one even had come close to discovering where she'd chosen to stay. 

"It took me some time, but one night I remembered a conversation I'd had with Khasinau. He'd mentioned something about your mother handling a personal endeavor in Switzerland. From that, I just did some research on the country and Irina's itinerary that year. A few months later, I was watching you in Charmey."

Watching her. In Charmey. Near the cottage her mother had given to her before she'd died. And she'd never known. 

"But the Covenant. If they know where I am – "

"They don't," he intoned. "Yet."

"You're telling me that you knew where I was before they took you into custody for three grueling months, if what your body reflects is correct – which we both know it does – and you didn't give them even a inkling of my whereabouts?"

What did he think she was, a fool?

That darkness flooded back and banked heavily into the depths of his eyes, making her breath catch. All the hurt, anguish, hatred, and anger collected and merged into a single entity, one that was so black it sent a trickle of fear through her veins.  

"If I'd revealed anything about you, even the _fact_ that you're staying in Switzerland, I wouldn't even be here to tell you anything to the contrary."

Their silence mounted and stayed precariously stagnant in the small corner of the cottage. Sydney was assured of his honesty. Verily, that one revealing statement was the only thing she _was_ sure of right now. Everything she had ever felt toward this man, everything she'd convinced herself was fact had been uprooted and excavated, comforting baobabs unearthed from the ground and torn to shreds. 

He had kept her secret. 

She cleared the lump from her throat with a hard swallow of wine. Uncertainty scoured through her with the accuracy of the finest incision, cutting painfully through a body that hadn't known that sort of feeling in months. Or maybe it wasn't so much uncertainty as it was a part of her that had been dormant for so long, reawakened. 

Why?

She tried not to think about his reasons for enduring such treatment at the hands of a group whose means of torture was both current and archaic. He must have sensed her thoughts for he continued. 

"I was comfortable in my role for many years," Sark began as he refreshed her glass. "My first reaction of irritation regarding my forced funding of the entire operation – with money I earned rightly by being raised by my father – faded when I was offered the cell in North America. But once my partner was killed, and the blame was inadvertently placed on me, there was a shift in responsibility."

He relaxed against the back of the chair, casually twirling the stem of his glass back and forth with his finger and thumb. "I was removed from the cell and placed in a smaller one, which included a dock in pay."

A light switched on in Sydney's head as the first sign of the Sark she remembered shone through. "You want your money back," she stated absently. 

His head slanted to the side, considering her for a moment before resting his glass back on the table. "Partially." 

"Partially," she replied somewhere between a question and a statement. 

Sark absentmindedly rubbed at the hair covering his face with a bit of reverence and the look of a cunning intellectual, even though he mostly resembled a rangy mountain man. It was a look that said although he was out for the money, he was also out for blood. 

"You feel betrayed, used," Sydney explained what she viewed on his face, in his eyes. He didn't challenge her, so she kept going. "You want to revenge for all they've done to you."

Sound familiar? Sydney asked herself. 

"It doesn't help, you know," she told him after a moment of quiet. As many times as she'd dreamed about killing Sloane, she knew it wouldn't alleviate all the pain she felt. It could even create more. Then again, she wasn't Sark. 

He looked her square in the eye and, with the utmost sincerity and coldness, replied, "It will. I'll make it."

The statement was said with such conviction that she believed him. 

"So, you just want me to go along with this charade?" She asked, placing her fork next to her plate. "I've been safe for two years and you want me to throw all of that away for you and your vendetta?"

"It's yours, too, Sydney. They took everything away from you. Don't tell me you're willing to throw the towel in and stay here for the rest of your life," he said, pointedly looking around at her small cabin in her small part of the world. "You're the one who can do something about it." 

He didn't say the word – _prophecy_ – but the implication of the dreadful word made her shudder. If ever a word unsettled her. 

"If that were true, it would have happened when I was at my strongest, when I had the backing of the CIA and certain other groups."

"You're telling me you know for a fact that that period was when you were at your strongest? If so, I believe you have no idea of the true strength of your ability." 

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair as he leaned closer, but she still listened. 

"Imagine the ability to make decisions for yourself without the sanction of the CIA. Imagine having people at your disposal who have the same drive, the same capabilities as you, even if they're driven by money. People who would do anything to see this great power fall, sans rule book."

The clock on the mantle ticked in time with her rapidly increasing heartbeat. 

"And imagine at the end of the day having no paperwork to tend to."

His last statement was said with a lighter air, a bit of tease meant to comfort her. To her surprise, a small smile formed on her face. She drained the remaining wine in one drink, watching him watch her for a moment, then shook her head. 

"You make it all sound so easy. So…" _Tempting._ She felt a tingle in her fingertips. How could she even entertain these thoughts? 

"What have you got to lose, Sydney?"

She didn't need to look around at her cabin like he so pointedly had a few minutes before. She knew where she lived, how she lived. It was a way that she'd come to accept in all these months, one that she'd foreseen staying the same in the future. 

Until he had showed up. 

Sark slid his hand into his jacket pocket, removing a disc. Placing it on the table, he moved his hand back, inviting her to look and touch. _Tempting._

"It's not much," he told her. "But it's a start."

***__

_Volume VI, Day 651_

_Snow: 9"_

_High Temperature: -3__° F _

_Crack in the ceiling: Forgot to measure. Will try tomorrow._

_Spent most of the afternoon and evening looking at schematics, maps with known cell locations, and a list of names and business fronts. He was right. He didn't have much, but it was definitely a start. _

_I have to admit I fell right back in to the routine of research and planning without any noticeable hitches. The knowledge I'd gained over the years had not diminished one iota. For Sark's benefit, I put on my best non-committal face as I browsed the disc and recognized some of the names and faces. Even some of the locations were familiar and brought back memories of ops past. But inside, my stomach churned with an anticipation I'd not felt in a long, long time. _

_He didn't ask me for an answer today. After we'd finished looking at the information, I tethered my cell phone to the laptop and allowed Sark to email his contact. From what I gather, he'll be leaving tomorrow. _

_I'm surprised to find my feelings mixed now that he'll be leaving. Whether it was just having company in this place or having a reconnection with my past, I suddenly feel a small twinge of loss. _

_He's also given me a way back into society, but to take what he's offered? Let's just say I'd have to give more than I'd feel comfortable offering into his trust._

_The revenge he's looking for is a tangible thing. It lit his eyes at the most surprising of times today. I understand the betrayal, the need of having blood spilled to relieve the pain of spillage of your own, sort of. But to be blinded by it is a mistake. To let it consume you, detrimental. I just hope he knows what he's doing. _

_I also hope I'll be able to make a decision by tomorrow that I won't end up regretting. _

_"I thought that I was rich, with a flower that was unique in all the world; and all I had was a common rose. A common rose, and three volcanoes that come up to my knees--and one of them perhaps extinct forever . . . That doesn't make me a very great prince . . . " – _The Little Prince,Ch20

                                                                                              ***

The bright sun filtered in through her living room window, catching her eyes unaware. Blinking away the pain of the shock of light, Sydney sat up, recognizing that she'd fallen asleep on the couch. Her gaze shifted to the tattered quilt that covered her, one that she knew she hadn't put on herself before fading out for the night. 

She raised her head and automatically looked down the hallway toward her room, where Sark probably still slept, then slipped and tied the blanket around her waist as she stood.  Slowly, she crept barefoot down the hall, only to meet Sark as he was leaving her room. 

"You're leaving?" Sydney asked, taking in his fully clothed body and the bag over his shoulder. 

He casually took in her appearance, frayed French braid and sweats, then nodded. 

"B-but," she stammered in her morning fog. "This early?" She hadn't even given him her answer yet. 

"My contact was merely a few hours away from here and should be around by eight."

Sydney nodded. "Right."

They stood facing each other in the hallway, his gaze assessing, hers somewhat similar. 

"You're planning to say no, aren't you?" Sark asked. 

She crossed her arms over her chest, telling herself it wasn't because she was self-conscious or feeling defensive. She was just more comfortable that way. 

"I need more time."

Sark blew out a weary breath, but re-centered himself quickly. "I'll need an answer soon."

"I know."

"They'll be looking for me once they discover the destruction in Darbonnay, if they haven't already."

"I know," she bit out. 

His imposing height filled and darkened her hallway, and, not for the first time, Sydney wondered how things were going to change when he was gone. Such a frightening thought considering he had only been with her a very short time. Thankfully, his voice shattered her thoughts. 

"You live like a recluse, all bottled up in this too small place. This isn't you."

Sydney laughed uncomfortably. "You have no idea who I am."

"I know plenty, and the person who so timidly walked around in this hiding place for the past few days is _not_ you."

_It is now. _

"Not that it's any of your business, Sark, but _I'm fine_."

He chuckled humorlessly. "You don't have any contact with the outside world, Sydney."

Sydney fretted with the edge of her shirt. "That's not true. I go into town for supplies," _where you rarely ever say a word to those you see. _"And I – " _went to a football game in Basel where everyone was cheering exuberantly and working as comrades towards that common goal – championship – and just sat there in amused awe without speaking to a soul. _

"It's quite pathetic, is it not?"

"Not pathetic," she countered, even if she was beginning to feel otherwise. "Safe."

His jaw grimly set, he adjusted the bag on his shoulder and walked to the front door. "I saved the email address of my contact into your address book so you can get in touch with me. I strongly urge you to consider this carefully before making your final decision."

"I will," she replied curtly. 

He left her standing just outside the hallway. He stepped out into the early morning winter anomaly of bright sun, securing the door behind him while she stood and stared at the shut door. 

_"You're planning to say no, aren't you?"_

Yes, she was. Her thoughts of what she'd have to do, have to relive to do all the things he wanted to accomplish, sat uneasily in her stomach. All the wounds reopened to burn and bleed more. The memories of those lost who should have been with her if she did decide she could take the Covenant down. 

No was the right decision. So why did she feel so wrong?

Sydney moved to her desk, finding her familiar journal and her book placed neatly atop. As she sat, she noticed a slip of paper folded into the slim book. Carefully removing it, she unfolded and read the single sentence written in black. 

_On my planet I had a flower; she always was the first to speak_

The contrast of black words and white paper, words etched within her memory now scratched neatly before her, hit a spot deep within with a force that smarted her. The thin paper felt heavy in her hands as the implied meaning sank in. 

As the smooth slip fell from her fingertips and landed on her desk, a fierce sense of enlightenment swept through her. What had she let all this devastation turn her into?

She crossed her living room in three large steps, facing the mirror to look into thirty-four-year-old eyes that had been world-weary for almost two years now. Was it her, or had they just changed over the course of a few seconds?

Suddenly, her cottage felt too small, stifling. Her clothes seemed too plain, the weather too cold and confining. Her life felt so lonely. She tugged restlessly at the turtleneck she'd worn to bed like it was choking her. 

This _life_ was choking her. 

Grabbing her ski coat and scarf, she shoved her arms in and flung the cotton carelessly around her neck. She stepped into her boots, forced her gloves on shaky hands, and ran outside. Surveying her land, she spied him walking a few hundred feet away, his form growing smaller by the second. She took off at the fastest sprint that snow allowed.

"Sark! Wait!" she called out when she was within shouting distance. 

She watched the small figure in black slow and then stop. There was still quite a bit of distance between them, but even over the wailing eddy wind, he somehow heard her. Giving little regard to her appearance, she stumbled and staggered through the soft, knee-deep snow. 

His straggly, wheat-colored hair blew wildly across his forehead, glinting in the sun and teased by the strong breeze. His heavy brows and coarse bearded face made his blue gaze appear electric as he stood in waiting for her. Flakes of fresh snowfall slowly melted on his ruddy cheeks and nose, and in his eyes…

She saw a knowing flash of victory mixed with a bit of curiosity. The sight should have angered her, but it didn't. 

"Yes," she blurted out breathlessly when she reached him. "I'm in."

His mouth and gaze softened with relief. Nodding, he glanced over his shoulder and her eyes followed, seeing a snowmobile heading their way. Sark placed his hand on the lower slope of her neck when he turned back to her in a gesture that was a bit more alarming than comforting. Alarming _because_ it was comforting. The contact tingled as he accidentally brushed the underside of her jaw with his gloved thumb. 

"We can do this, Sydney. It might take some time and will surely take a lot of effort, but with the right game plan, this will all end."

She nodded as the figure in the distance slowly drew nearer then stopped at a point that still gave them their privacy. 

"I'll be staying in Geneva for the next week. If you can close up shop here before that's up – "

"Yeah," Sydney replied, her focus on the person in the distance who had removed his helmet. Recognizing the face she hadn't seen in years, she looked back at Sark with a hint of a smile on her face. 

_This could very well work_, a voice in her head told her. 

"You'll get our exact locations tonight in your email."

She nodded again and stepped back. Sark's hand slid away from her body as he turned to leave, the loss of warmth chilling her. Sydney watched as he trudged over to the black vehicle, swinging his leg over and sitting behind his contact. After a small, hesitant wave to the duo, she headed back home with a lighter step than she'd had in months. 

When the cottage came into view, she noticed it looked different now, a bit more worn than it ever had before. She smiled confidently as she reached her door. If she had any doubts about her decision, they disappeared as she bolted the lock behind her. 

Leaning back against the closed door, Sydney exhaled two years worth of troubles in the heaviest of breaths. She was ready now. 

                                                                                              ***

_Volume VI, Day 654_

_I'm leaving today. This will be the last information that I dare document for a while. Whatever happens in the future, I just wanted you to know how much this meant to me. Having your ear to confide in. _

_Thank you._

_Ma vie est monotone. Je chasse les poules, les hommes me chassent. (My life is monotonous. I chase chickens, men chase me.) – _The Little Prince,Ch21

_~End of Part One~_


	2. The Tame

A/N – Thanks go to carmensandiego, waterdancer, pie, Emma, and bronwynmaye for all their help in this. Quotes from The Little Prince and again in italics.

---------------

Part Two: The Tame

Arvin Sloane was dead.

In all actuality, the man born with that name was still on this earth, healthy as an ox and as free as a bird. Currently, he happened to be walking out the back exit of a crowded dance club, after picking up papers from a contact who would see an untimely death after consuming the remainder of his drink. But as far as the rest of the common world, all authorities and business contacts were concerned, Arvin Sloane was dead – leaving only a burnt body with enough DNA residue for positive identification.

He looked down at the packet of papers in his hand, inspecting the new passport. He smiled – the work was absolutely flawless. The final piece of perfection required to pull off this coup was finally in his possession.

Just as it should be, the man at the top had outlasted all other members beneath him. For the past eight months, cell leaders and other members of the Covenant had been disappearing one by one. Some rumored Mod Squad had terrorized their alliance, decreasing their numbers and leaving them weakened beyond recognition.

Two males and one female – unidentified as of yet – who had ruined everything he'd worked for over the past thirty some odd years. Three people who had destroyed all dummy corporations procured and used by the Covenant. Three people who had taken out some of the most powerful, most highly guarded and extremely capable men in the entire world.

If he, personally, hadn't identified a few of the bodies that were still recognizable, he wouldn't have even entertained the idea that _his_ alliance – something that _he'd_ built and overseen – was at all fallible. But after the deaths of McKenas Cole and Kazari Bomani just two nights ago, he had become fully convinced of this apparent weakness.

Immediately following the body disposal of the last two men under "The Man", he'd finally finished laying out the trail to a body that was supposedly his, transferred the millions he'd had in the bank to an untraceable account under his new name – Muusa Muhammad – and was now leaving through the alley behind the nightclub to his car. Next stop – Geneva International Airport.

As the man now known as Muusa Muhammad walked by a few promiscuous couples who'd escaped the inside to find more privacy outdoors, he pulled the checked ghoutra closer to his bronzed face. The fall night in Switzerland was only a tad chilly, but the cover served more to conceal his identity in his hasty escape than to provide warmth.

He navigated the dark, narrow walkway swiftly, walking through the pulsing vibrations of bass reverberating through the walls of the building and the cool, caressing night wind. Throaty moans of lover's names and anxious pleas of _more_, _harder_, _faster_ mixed with the sensuous groove and surrounding warmth, giving the ambiance an underlying sense of wanton surrealism. But with his goal of safe escape just barely out of reach, he barely took more notice than was needed.

His black suit shielded him in the night as he slinked through the murky shadows, avoiding the couples and the few weak halogen lights that lit the way. Only when Muhammad neared the cross-section in the alley – the break in the wall that led directly to his vehicle – did his body still and his eyes linger a moment, absorbing the sight before him.

It wasn't the act itself that caught his attention. It was the fact that the two males - both wrapped around the same female - were partially blocking his route.

Two males and one female. That alone had him immediately questioning his safety. His hand automatically reached into his pocket for his weapon, gripping the piece as he began to round the corner.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the act unfold. Watched as the woman's red dress was hiked up around her hips by one set of hands, while the other set bunched the sides of her underwear together in a thin line and pushed them nearly down past her rump. Hands moved everywhere – disappearing down in front of her, between her legs, down to cup and squeeze her rear, up to grope her chest.

The participants were so engrossed in their lascivious act that Muhammad relaxed some and changed their label to non-threatening. He slid past them, unnoticed – or so he thought.

"You looking for a good time tonight, old man?" Muhammad heard the deep British drawl call out to him, but he kept moving. From the corner of his eye, he could see that the man who'd been behind the woman had stepped away.

"She's quite good. Mouth as hot as a cup of Earl Grey and a skilled tongue that'll suck the cream straight out of an éclair."

His head still forward, Muhammad briskly shook it in answer, and kept walking.

"Come on. Twenty Francs for a blow. Fifty for a quick fuck in the alley here."

Keeping his gaze averted, Muhammad shook his head again and instinctively grasped his weapon tighter. He could hear the man's footsteps coming after him.

"That's a bargain for a tight little cunt like hers. And here… here," the man said, as he caught up with him. He stiffened when the man placed a hand on his arm. Muhammad looked up at the dark-featured man before him, his face carefully blank.

"Watch. You'll love this," the man said, then turned to the two people he'd just left. "Red!" he called out, whistling through his teeth to get her attention. Immediately, the woman stopped and turned to face them. Her head was down, red hair hiding her face as she looked at the ground,

"Complete submission," the man next to Muhammad murmured. "Just the type your kind likes, no?"

"I am not interested," Muhammad replied in a clipped, practiced accent before stepping away.

A few paces down, Muhammad was stopped again. With his gun in hand, he turned sideways to face the young man one more time. He was stunned to find the hand on his arm belonged not to the man, but to the young woman. Her head was still lowered and her hair still shielded her face – and he was surprised when she spoke.

"Monsieur," Muhammad heard the low, melodic French voice intone. "I would like to service you."

His body started at the bold request. He had no time for this; his plane was leaving in less than an hour. But then he looked at her – slim shoulders and long neck that was hidden in her submissive bow, skimpy red leather dress that stopped just short of showing her nipples, lithe arms now limp at her sides and tight, powerful legs that in her business proved her worth. All he could do was curse.

For a moment he could barely think, his mind trapped suddenly between lust and a fatherly instinct he'd thought so miniscule now it'd never find a way to resurface. But there it was, followed by a sense of guilt and remorse and growing incense. He batted all three emotions down and moved to walk away again, but her hand held his shirt.

"Please." The desperation in her voice sought out that raw, vulnerable emotion in him again.

Resigned, Muhammad turned to look at her fully. This unfamiliar feeling inside him gave him the urge to make a last penance for the children he and Emily never had the chance to have. One of his hands gently cupped her shoulder, while the other released hold of his gun and found the bottom of her chin, trying to force eye contact with her.

After some initial resistance, her chin lifted. In the dim light of the alley, he could only see the faint outline of her dark painted lips and her eyes, still downcast. Her hands hesitantly reached out to his waist, nimble fingers trailing over the slats of his ribs, then down to the cushioned wrap he wore around his midsection.

There was a slight tremble in her breath as her hands dipped down closer to his hips. Muhammad heard that same man call out, "If you're gonna fuck him, love, move back further into the shadows."

Muhammad's angry gaze flickered out to the men – the second man also hidden in shadows as he flanked the first – both standing less than twenty feet away. It was on his tongue to censure the callous man who spoke, but before he could even open his mouth, he felt two things: a hand taking the gun from his pocket with a swiftness that shocked him and cool metal pushing up into his jugular.

He looked back to the woman who had turned her head slightly, looking to the men who had started walking in their direction. Her face caught a hint of light from down the way. His heart stopped as he recognized the familiar profile that both relieved and terrified him.

_She's alive. _

She smiled then, gun cocked, eyes piercing him – laden with hot anger and determination.

"Hello, Sloane."

---------------

5 HOURS EARLIER

_"What does that mean--'tame'?"   
__"It is an act too often neglected. It means to establish ties." _

_  
_From the row of windows that lined one side of the penthouse suite, Sydney watched the moon rise. It was full, with an orange tint that had her thinking of fireplaces and cold weather, even though it was barely fall. It made sense when she really thought about it. The last time she had been in this country, eight long months ago, cold and raging fires in small nooks had taken on a very real fixation in her existence. To have it all end where it began…

Sydney smiled. Switzerland would mean so many things to her from now on.

Tonight was it, she thought, as the stars began to fully litter the sky. Tonight was the night. The finale. The big fat cherry on top of the sweetest pie she'd ever tasted. Eight months of grueling work, death, and destruction, that followed nearly two years in complete solitude.

And after tonight, it was all going to be over.

Freedom lurked just beyond her fingertips. No longer a flirty tease that crooked its luring finger at her, telling her to come and get her life back. It was so close; so real that chills worked up and down her arms as she thought of the word.

Sydney wrapped her arms around herself and turned back into the room, only to discover that maybe there had been another reason her skin had suddenly become prickly.

"Hey," she smiled.

Hands casually in his pant pockets, Sark stepped closer – his expression mostly bland and unrevealing. Ease settled his body as he moved across the room, accentuating the smoothness of his gait, along with the fit of the black turtleneck and matching slacks he wore.

His appearances had become a startling awakening. Daily, she was amazed at how quickly her body responded when she saw him or, more surprisingly, felt him enter her circumference.

As his external wounds had healed and his emotional ones had buried under layers of thick, tough skin, he'd grown less angry, dark and broody – becoming more casual and accepting.

Even more amazing to her was how attuned they'd become to each other on the job – predicting each other's next move or communicating with even the slightest flicker of eye movement. They shared the same irrefutable sense of determination, the same endless drive that kept them going through the rough spots when it seemed as if this would never end.

Sometimes, she would catch that recognizable hint of arrogance on his face – as if he knew that it was her awareness of him that did peculiar things to her skin, things that she had instantly tried to reject.

Other times, the look in his eyes was too complex to name. His face could be clear of any emotion, but his eyes would darken, simpering fully with a torrid, predatory hunger that was always met with the resistance of confusion and frustration. Like these feelings between them were not only unwanted, but all her doing.

It was infuriating.

Even more maddening was when she had first tried to break down the other, more difficult to read emotions in those eyes – and was only left feeling confused and a bit frightened.

How could an attraction be building between them? And, more unsettling, why did a large part of her want to witness that look again?

But lately, the sight of that kindness that sometimes turned to passion in his eyes or even that destructive, volatile behavior he displayed on the field had grown more reassuring, more natural to her. Somewhere along the way, his resistance – that confusion and frustration – had lessened to nearly invisible and she had all but forgotten about rejecting him.

In a way, they had established a tie.

They had yet to act on this mutual attraction. Neither had made the decision to take that step, cross that imaginary critical line that would change and very much complicate things. But the pounding of her heart that quickened with each step he took closer told her it was inevitable now – not impossible as she'd once thought.

Unconsciously, she backed up a few steps, her back resting against the cool glass as Sark stopped within a few feet of her. He took in her appearance with a brief glance – the black knee-length satin robe she wore over her bra and underwear bringing no additional flicker of interest to his eyes.

"Procrastinating?" he asked calmly, then sidestepped and moved in beside her.

Sydney briefly looked down at her state of dress and smiled. Turning around, she joined him in looking back out at the city. "Why don't _you_ wear a leather dress for five minutes and then tell me how thrilled you'd be to put one on again."

He chuckled lightly, leaning lazily against the glass next to her. "I believe I'll pass. Although, you know you're not the only one who has the pleasure of wearing leather tonight."

She remembered too well the pants he'd bought in Italy last week.

"Yeah, yeah. So, you're telling me to buck up, then?"

"Something like that."

They stood in impregnable silence and watched the varied lights twinkle in the night – waking stars, buildings and passing cars. The steady hum of the air vent and the light background of classic rock music that continuously filtered through the speakers in each room only added to the comforting quiet. Sparks of attraction grew and crackled noisily between them, building this bizarre sensation of inevitability.

Soon.

Panic and anticipation quickly sluiced through her with the thought.

"Can you believe we're here?" she said, hoping he missed the slight quaver in her voice.

Her stare cut sideways to him. She watched him glance briefly at the skyline, then rather longer at her. He didn't respond, but his eyes and the soft line of his mouth told her that he was thinking something similar.

"Your ankle seems better," Sydney remarked after a few moments of silence.

Insouciantly, he shrugged one shoulder. "It was a simple jar. Nothing that doesn't fix in a day or two."

True, she nodded. It could have been worse. The dropping distance from atop one dilapidated building to another, lower building nearby, then onto uneven dirt in the dead of night – before the original building blew sky-high – was enough to cause more than a simple jolt. It could have been much worse – they _had_ been through much worse.

She took a deep breath and his fragrance infiltrated her senses – faint sandalwood with some spice. She found herself inching closer. Reaching up, she touched his newly smooth jaw in slight awe. He was warm, soft. Familiar now.

He turned his head to look at her, but otherwise held still under her touch. Her voice was amazingly steady when she whispered, "I can't believe how different you look without that awful beard."

"It sort of grew on me," he replied calmly.

"More like grew out of control," she joked lightly, lowering her hand and ending the intimate touch. "I understand the need for anonymity, but eight months of the mysterious mountain man is a tad much, even for you."

"Well, it was an excellent aid in Afghanistan last week."

She smiled, agreeing. "Still, you're a new person now."

He rubbed a strong hand over the other side of his face for a few seconds, then dropped it back to his side. Sydney watched as a muscle ticked in his jaw. His gaze, burning into hers, dipped to her mouth – and stayed there.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "It felt good to…"

"Good to what?" She blinked at him, bemused by flaming eyes.

His warm breath fanned across her cheek, causing goose bumps to form again on her flesh and a tightly wound knot to shape in her stomach. She searched his eyes. Maybe the time had come to stop fighting.

That was her last thought before Sark was kissing her. But not her last thought as he eagerly urged her mouth open with his own, continuing with this first step or more precisely – as his arm coiled around her waist to pull her against him – this first leap.

Sydney eased into his embrace, thinking of how this came to be, of how long they'd both been fighting this. Thinking, as his hand tightened around her hip over mostly healed, puckered flesh – a knife wound in Bangladesh – about how he had stitched her up several hours later in grim silence.

Remembering, as one of her hands moved over a remnants of a bullet graze on the back of his right shoulder while the other slid over an old gash on his collarbone – both from their work in Buenos Aires – when they'd returned to the suite and he'd vehemently insisted he didn't need her help. She had spent that entire night awake, sitting outside his suite room door just in case he needed anything.

Reliving, as her body heated and liquefied, the excitement she felt knowing that lately he'd spend a few minutes each night leaning against her doorjamb, watching her as she pretended to sleep before returning to his own room.

His lips, wicked things, devastated her senses. Some sound filled her head, like an echo of surf pounding on the shore, but a cloud of sensation muted the more distinct noises. She could have shifted back an inch and severed the contact, but instead she kept herself close to consummate this; to let it grow.

His tongue, taking hot, swift strokes between her pliant lips, gave her a blatant invitation to invade by pulling hers inside his mouth. She tried to gather her wits, but the onslaught of pleasure and heat was too much. She wanted this… wanted him.

Images rose unbidden in her mind as his strong palms opened and slid to the flare of her rear end, pressing her tight against him. Hot images of them together, taking full advantage of every room in this two-room suite fired her system. His pelvis moved slowly against hers in a languid imitation of sex, furthering this craze that demolished her inhibitions.

Dimly, she was aware of a tight pressure in her chest. She turned her face away to gasp for air and managed to inhale his unmistakable scent – one that she'd recognize anywhere now.

"_Sark_."

He caught her chin in his hand and reclaimed her mouth with an unsatisfied moan. _I'm not done. _Months of denying each other contact, of compounding feelings and bursts of need that had festered until they'd teetered on obsessive, exploded in a fevered tangle of lips and limbs.

Sydney gave up all control and his hold tightened, her complete surrender subtly changing his advances. Situating a knee between her legs and bringing one hand to her chest inside the part of her robe, he pushed her flush against the glass. Instead of restrictive and grabby, though, it felt relieving, soothing. His kiss gentled, switching from furious to slow and deep and long, while his fingers skimmed lightly over the faint swell of her breast, clad in swirls of red lace.

Without warning, Sark lifted the back of her robe, stroking his other hand down her back, into the string of her thong and straight to where the material widened to cover her. She could feel his chest push against hers as he took rapid breaths that mirrored her own. Shocked by the effect of his fingers there, Sydney arched forward in surprise, Sark's mouth stifling a small cry. Undeterred, his hand driven by her response, he roughly squeezed one round cheek.

He slid into the cleft of her behind, low, deep, touching her intimately in a brash, alluring exploration. She shuddered in reaction to the contact and tightly curled her fingers into the cashmere covering his collarbone.

Sark finally lifted his lips, keeping his forehead against hers as he worked to catch his breath. Her breath seized for a mere second when their gazes met – melting and burning as such a searing heat warranted.

He made a low sound in his throat as he pushed one finger slowly into her, feeling how obviously ready she was for him. One of her hands furrowed up into the back of his hair and she lifted one leg, wrapping it just below his hip. His eyes sank closed while his finger slid deeper, teasing with each miniscule bit of penetration. He drew in a deep breath before looking back at her.

"This probably isn't very wise," he murmured in an erotic exhalation.

Her stomach clenched further as his hand shifted the tiniest bit, rasping against sensitive flesh. "No," she replied in a soft moan. "Probably not."

He searched her eyes for a long, ardent moment. The hand inside her the top of robe pushed the lace aside and enclosed over the silky skin of her breast, his thumb brushing over, then slightly tugging her nipple. Her leg automatically tightened on his hip, as did everything else in her body. She closed her eyes. God, his hands.

His lips caressed the corner of her mouth in a feather-like touch as he whispered against her skin, "Then again, most would say my decisions rarely are."

Sydney bowed her head on his shoulder, a short stint of breathless laughter escaping into the crook of his neck. The succinct noise trailed off as she pulled back to glance into his eyes. Sark moved in closer, as if he were going to kiss her again – and a knock sounded on the door.

Both of them instantly stilled at the sound.

Sark let out a quiet whistle as his hand skimmed up to her lower back. He fixed her lapel with one hand and smoothed the satin over her rear again with the other, his lower hand lingering for a moment in the curve of her back. Even with her nakedness covered up, Sydney still felt raw and exposed after that hazardous entanglement.

The last thing she had needed was to become more aware of Sark and what his mere presence could do to her. Her days and nights had been bad enough without that physical contact. But now that that barrier had been broken, eviscerated, there it was – sitting on the table as pretty as a tiger ravaging its prey. Sweaty palms, erratic heart, the panting breaths – the tingling need that had her feeling out of control.

She so hadn't needed that entire scene to happen.

Sark's jaw hardened and he hummed, low, in his throat. He stepped away at the second knock.

The last glimpse she had of his face showed him slightly flushed, wiping lips that were a bit swollen with the back of his hand. As he turned to walk to the door, she spied mussed hair, tousled by her anxious fingers. She touched the back of her own damp hair and noticed her lips felt tender. She had a feeling that if there were a mirror handy she'd be all wild hair and puffy lips, too.

As composed as she could be, Sydney moved away from the window and followed Sark at a distance into the entry. Before she rounded the corner, she heard the male voice.

"Champagne, Monsieur. Compliments of the hotel."

The front door latched loudly in the quiet room as it shut, and she joined the two men in the suite's foyer. The neatly dressed dark-haired man gave her a swooping look up and down, then produced a smile so blatantly sexual she nearly laughed at the audacity.

"Chérie," he murmured appreciatively.

Sydney barely paid any mind to the two men as she walked over to the tray, grabbing a full flute and taking a sip. The bubbles tickled going down, but the cool and calming liquid was much needed after that kiss.

The vainglorious man's dark eyes raked over her again, stalling on her exposed throat as the muscles worked the champagne down, but she felt nothing more than the unsettling in her stomach, leftover from her encounter with Sark. Carefully, she drained the flute in two drinks and placed it back on the silver tray. The man was still watching her.

"Pervert," she mumbled.

Grinning his infamous cheeky smile, he gave her a friendly kiss on the cheek. "And don't you ever forget it. But you have to admit that after hanging around Mr. Doldrums here for the past week, you missed it."

She laughed, avoiding eye contact with Sark. If he only knew.

"Not in the least, Simon," Sydney called out, as she led them all back into the main room of the suite.

She took her place on the couch, curling her legs beneath her as she sat. Sark sat across from her on a cushioned wingback chair, casually crossing his legs as Simon tossed a file folder in his lap and then one on Sydney's.

Simon slipped a flute from the tray and walked over to the row of windows, looking out at the city. Sydney thumbed through the surveillance photos and documentation, and assumed Sark was doing the same.

Moments of silence passed. When Sydney looked up from her folder, she saw Simon sitting on the desk by the windows. She smiled at the sight of him – dressed in an immaculate white service suit, with his blue-black hair tumbling across his brow. He leaned with a forearm on his knee, staring out into the night and absently picked at the fruit on the champagne tray, preferring the dark grapes to all the other choices.

Funny how she could make friends with such a man.

How she could befriend two such men, for that matter.

Simon must have felt her gaze, for he turned to look at her. "Nice night to get the band back together for a farewell gig, don't you think?"

Sydney set her folder on the nearest table and relaxed into the couch. "Mmm hmm."

"Anxious to get there?" Simon asked.

"I'm more than ready to get to that alley to get this started, if that's what you're asking."

"I bet you are," he said, the timbre of his voice fluctuating in a smarmy manner. "And _I_ can't wait to get my hands up that dress of yours, even if it's merely one of the pains of the job."

She looked at him drolly, shaking her head. "You're such an ass."

Simon winked and popped a plum grape into his mouth, smiling unabashedly. "Yes. I do fancy myself as one of those, too. It's quite a shame that you know me so well, Ms. Bristow."

"So you made visual," Sark interrupted. "And the equipment is all in place."

"Yep," Simon replied, all business again. "The manager of L'Interdit, Mimi, was more than willing to take me in as a nooner."

"The pains of the job," Sydney sighed. Simon waggled his brows suggestively at her.

"So, where were the photos taken?" Sark asked.

"Salon. Downtown. Waited for nearly an hour for him to come back out."

"Salon?" Sydney asked. "Wig?"

"Nope," Simon returned, loosening his bowtie. "Tanning. It appears that Sloane is trying to pass himself off as ethnic."

"Italian? Hispanic?" Sydney asked.

"I'd say with the garb he was wearing when I caught him back at his hotel, more like Arab."

"Ah," Sydney nodded. "With the terrorist threat at a low right now, it makes sense."

"He had five men with him as security all day, but I have a feeling that once he gets his papers, he's going to be on his own."

"I agree," Sark nodded as he stood.

Sydney watched him head over to Simon, who threw something in Sark's direction. Sark held up a thin black pencil and groaned at their partner. "Eyeliner? Christ, it's bad enough I have to smell like baby powder just to get into the pants, but liner, too?"

"We all make our sacrifices for the good of the group," Simon sighed, then hopped off the desk.

"And yours just happen to consist of stiff drinks and nooners," Sark quipped back.

Simon shrugged. "One of the pains." Inserting a hand into his pocket, he walked out the room, calling out, "See you both in about three hours, then."

A charged silence filled the room again without Simon's presence, thickly coating the air with energy, like the room knew that they were once again alone. Sydney got to her feet to finish getting ready, but stopped when she felt Sark's hard gaze on her. She dared a glance at him, but almost immediately kicked herself once her heart started clamoring in her chest.

_"I cannot play with you. I am not tamed."_

The words popped suddenly into her head, bringing her back to their task at hand. This wasn't the time. Tightening her robe around her, she left the room – feeling two holes practically burning in her back where his eyes were fixed.

The problem was, she thought as she closed her door and let her robe slide from her shoulders and flutter to the ground behind her, out of the two of them who was the untamed one?

---------------

"Okay, Red, one former head of The Covenant with a horrendous new dye job has just made his entrance."

Sydney placed her hand on Sark's knee as confirmation to him that she'd received Simon's information. He covered her had with his and squeezed in response, lifting their linked hands in an invitation for her to finally stand.

Thank God. Her legs were starting to numb from sitting so awkwardly on the floor for the past hour.

She glanced up at him from her docile position at his feet, but instead of standing, she moved to her knees in front of him. Sark was looking back at her smugly, looking her over with an unashamed dominance, as was his role.

With lips as red as her tight, strapless leather dress, Sydney smiled coquettishly back at her master – playing her role equally as well.

Loud music blasted at them from all sides. Music that wasn't really her style, but then again, it rarely was in places like these. She found her tastes had changed much over the years – especially after the two she'd spent in hiding.

The people filling the dance floor seemed to like it well enough though. And there were plenty, so many bodies gyrating in the place that you couldn't walk through without brushing up against strangers. The red and green strobe lights gave an otherworldly effect to the place, lighting elated faces – some partially covered by Mardi Gras style masks – in sequences that would have seemed strange if her sight hadn't been on Sark.

Whose gaze was just as fixed on the slight overflow of her tits.

Sydney reached for the martini glass on the table next to them and slid the stem of the glass between her fingers. Cupping the bottom in her palm, she placed it at his lips to drink. To the untrained eye, she may have appeared engrossed in the movement of Sark's throat as he drank the cocktail, but in fact that was the precise moment her senses snapped to full alert.

Sloane was in the building and had just stepped to the table of his contact, directly over Sark's shoulder.

She spied the stocky looking man walking toward the reserved tables, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the mostly leather and denim clad crowd in his black, monochromatic suit, with a flowing ghoutra on his head. The extra pounds had to be artificial padding, and the dye job wasn't exactly dye. With the headdress he wore to claim his ethnic roots, a straight-cut set of bangs were all that was visible – black and a little too short for his face shape. An obvious wig, since she knew he was nearly bald.

The toothpick holding two green olives in the clear, strong liquid, fell against the side of the glass, spilling some of the drink over the lip of the glass and onto his mouth. In a move that was more natural than part of her role, her tongue flicked out and licked at the liquid, then she her mouth closed over his lip to finish the job.

She sucked languidly on the lip as she pulled back to look at him. "My apologies," she said, biting back a grin.

The lights glinted off both the silver hoops in his eyebrows, and in his lined eyes – slashes of black eyeliner outlined both top and bottom lid. Or maybe the glint was some of the same heat she began to feel, knowing her stomach was pressed against the growing hardness in his pants.

The different colors in the club lit his eyes in red or green, as the normal light blue irises were overcome by translucence in the otherwise dark room. His face seemed extra pale to her, making him appear a bit ethereal – especially with the short, gelled spikes in his hair that appeared darker with product overuse. But it worked. Just like every other situation they'd been in, Sark blended in with the room with effortless ease.

Her gaze slid down to those tight leather pants she had been anxious to see him in and suddenly she was on fire. The combination of the taste of him and seeing his strong thighs around her, squeezed into soft, black leather, made her tongue, and other parts of her body feel thick, swollen. She struggled to avert her gaze to somewhere safer, only to be met with a black hooded vest – unzipped, no shirt on beneath.

The room grew hotter the longer she stared at his bare chest. _It didn't have this affect just a few minutes ago_, she mused. Her hand hesitantly reached out to trace the outline of his pec – moving back the material that covered him in the process.

He looked down as her nail flicked his pebbled nipple and closed his eyes. Driven by his response, Sydney leaned down to lap up a large drop of wetness that had fallen on his chest. She lingered, curling her tongue around his nipple, feeling a feminine liberation she'd forgotten existed before tonight.

Sark startled her by catching her around the waist and lifting her to sit on his lap. Her breath came in small pants as he pressed her back tightly against his front.

"Simon says look lively," Sark whispered in her ear as his thumb softly stroked just under her breast. "Money has just exchanged hands."

Sydney swallowed hard as she stood – Sark followed. Giving no more thought to what had just transpired between them, she let him lead her out of the club and into the chilly night.

---------------

The wait felt endless. In the shadows of the alley bisecting the back exit Sloane would likely take, Sydney stood next to Sark with her arms crossed, both of them waiting for Simon's confirmation. She uncrossed her arms to rub her sweaty palms on her leather dress before remembering it was leather.

"Not much help?" Sark asked, casually leaning back against the cement wall.

She sniffed derisively at him as she unlatched the clasp on her clutch purse, readying herself for every outcome of this daring feat. And there were many, considering none of them knew how Sloane would react. Just thinking his name drove her into a restlessness that made her body itch.

To kill the man she'd wanted dead for almost ten years. To finally be free of everything relating to the spy world. To live a normal life…

"Okay, Red," her earpiece chirped. "He's coming your way."

It was easy to shift back into the same role she'd played in the club. The musky taste of his skin still sat on her tongue; the heady taste of liquor and desire in his mouth as it had plunged hers was tasted with each swallow. She moved her body closer to him, watching his gaze move down to where she pushed up against his front, then back up to look into her eyes.

Her hands wanted to move confidently over the terrain that was becoming familiar to her, but the importance of her role made her refrain. She was already learning where to touch him to hear that slight gasp in his breath and how to slide her tongue against his, then draw it into the warmth of her own so she could feel his body flex as she sucked on it. But her role called for her complete acquiescence to him – she'd come too far to forget the importance of that now.

Sark's hand fisted in her hair, pulling her to him in a quick, greedy motion. Heat scorched where their lips joined and moved against each other, then steadily flowed down to saturate her body as she opened up to him. He yanked roughly on her hair, craning her neck back in a way that would have probably hurt if it hadn't been for the levels of adrenaline swarming her system.

Her hands had automatically flattened on Sark's chest to show her weakness. Her heart beat frantically in her chest and her breathing quickened with each masterful stroke of his tongue, but none of that made her feel threatened.

She felt alive.

Sydney barely noticed when Simon fit himself behind her, only feeling a sudden warmth cover her backside as he stepped in and thrust his hips into her rear. Rough hands grabbed at her hips, and she had to force her mind back to the situation and the sounds around her in the alley instead of what both men were doing to her.

When her dress was forced up around her waist, her thighs and rear exposed to the chill of the night, she didn't even shiver. Eagerly she was groped – Simon's hands delving and probing down in front of her, yet respectfully touching nothing vital, and Sark's thumbs hooking into the string of her thong, tenaciously trying to pull those down as easily as he had gotten her dress up – but she felt nothing more than anxiousness to hear or see Sloane nearby.

Her back stiffened when she Simon stopped kissing her neck to call out, "You looking for a good time tonight, old man?"

Game on.

A chill worked up her spine as Simon stepped away – a combination of the cool air and anticipation. Her eyes opened and, in an exact contrast to her out-of-control body, steadily held Sark's gaze. She knew full well they were lit up with excitement, a feeling of elation that she hoped he shared. She tried wordlessly to tell him how much this meant to her, but his eyes showed that he already knew.

Simon's voice floated around them as he tried to convince Sloane to stop. Sark let go of her hair and stopped kissing her, but still held her tight in his arms.

"Red!" Simon called out, then whistled.

Sydney complied and turned with her head demurely down and shoulders slumped to show her insecurity. Quickly she smoothed the skirt of her dress down to cover herself up.

She waited until Sloane moved to flee again before she looked at Simon. Tilting his head to give her to green light, he moved back toward Sark and let Sydney take over.

Sydney had to count in her head to control her temper and not react by immediately running after him. Sloane had to be armed, probably ready to shoot after Simon's disruption, but hopefully he'd refrain long enough for her to get close.

Her shoulders shook slightly as she approached him and she had to take a deep breath to keep steady. She stepped closer and kept her hair shielding her face from his view, hoping he'd let her in, hoping he'd take the bait. She reached him and laid a hand on his arm. He stiffened under the touch and she saw his right arm twitch – his gun was in that pocket.

"Monsieur," she said quietly, once his eyes recognized it was her, not Simon. "I would like to service you."

At first his eyes shifted in the direction his car was parked, then the flitted back to her. She saw the indecision in his eyes, the look of a man who was moments away from freedom – a sentiment she ironically shared.

"Please."

Sloane sighed. His calloused hand touched her shoulder, truly surprising her. She'd never figured Sloane for the type to linger after a scene like this. His sleeve brushed her skin as he put his fingers under her chin to tip her head up. Her pulse thudded at the back of her throat, filling her ears with dull noise, as he forced her to look at him.

He moved closer, subtly, and her hands hesitantly lifted to his sides. Slowly, she smoothed down over his ribs, then his rounded waist, coming within inches of his weapon. Her breathing was shallow and shaky, but her hands were strong and determined.

Simon voice sounded one last time, distracting Sloane. In a movement faster than Sloane could blink – and more accurate than the average person – she ripped his gun from his pocket and shoved the barrel up into his neck.

Barely catching her breath over the exhilaration she felt consuming her, Sydney stared at him. Understanding flashed briefly in his eyes and she couldn't help but smile.

"Hello, Sloane."

---------------

_But when it is a bad plant, one must destroy it as soon as possible, the very first instant that one recognizes it._

The sound of the lock shocking back and the sliding of the warehouse's outer door echoed loudly throughout the abandoned building. In a flash, Sydney was snapped her out of her momentary reverie. Thoughts of pulling the trigger and making neat little holes in Sloane's body faded away suddenly. She must have zoned out while waiting for Sark and Simon to finish going through Sloane's belongings and vehicle, looking for the information they needed.

Neither one of her partners would understand how hard it was to wrap her mind around this moment.

Sitting on an old card table – arms crossed, gun tapping anxiously on her thigh – she cautiously regarded Sloane as he lay supine on the hard floor. His hand was limp on his abdomen and his legs appeared equally flaccid, still sprawled in the haphazard way they'd ended up when he'd been dropped on the floor nearly thirty minutes earlier.

"You shouldn't have hit him so hard," Sydney mused aloud, as her to cohorts came up behind her.

Simon took a seat next to her, glancing at Sloane in a lackadaisical manner. A large, purplish lump had already formed on the older man's temple – the result of a blunt hit from the butt of Simon's gun.

Sydney saw Simon tilt his head to the side and shrug. "I told him to stop with the all that whiny hubbub. One more plea of negotiations to spare his mangy life and I'd have done much worse."

Sark cleared his throat and Simon amended, "After we verified the account information, of course."

Sydney glanced over her shoulder at Sark, who had powered up the laptop and tethered it to his phone. He caught her gaze for a brief, shocking moment before a low moan caught all of their attention.

Automatically bringing a hand to his temple, Sloane rose up on one elbow and squinted at them through pain-filled eyes. It only took him a moment to comprehend the situation.

"When my people started dropping like flies, I had a feeling that I'd find you responsible. Even if all correspondence I'd received listed you as deceased."

He was looking directly at Sydney, who offered him only an expression of impassivity. Even though her face was near blank, inside she was fuming – her insides searing with angry heat that was aimed at Sloane. She knew full well where – and how – he'd thought she had died.

"I would ask for your account numbers, but luckily we just happened to find them in a brief search of your vehicle," Sark chimed in. "Quite sloppy, fastening a box to the underside of your rental."

Sloane's gaze hardened imperceptibly as it lifted over Sydney's shoulder to Sark. Sloane finally sat up, hunching over and grimacing as he fought the nausea that had paled his tan skin. He swiped a hand across the red-tinted spittle that had formed in the corner of his mouth before he spoke.

"So _you_ want your money," Sloane referred to Sark, then eyed Sydney again. "_You_ want to act on your precious vendetta." His gaze slid to Simon who smiled cheekily.

"Don't look at me, old boy," Simon held up a hand in defense. "I'm a mite less complicated than them. I'm simply a hired hand who'll take the quid wherever he can get it."

Sark leaned in to Sydney's shoulder and spoke quietly in her ear. "I'm transferring the money now. We'll wait for you outside."

She nodded and tapped the barrel of her gun against her thigh again, her eyes never straying from Sloane. He just stared back, taking periodical swipes at his lip.

Looking into those beady, evil eyes momentarily took her back to events better not remembered.

_"Sydney… you need to get out of here. The building –"_

_"I'm not leaving without you, Dad."_

_"No, Sydney. Go… End this. I'm not –"_

_"Oh God. Daddy."_

An acrid taste filled her mouth as the memory of the scent of blood assailed her nostrils. Blood pooling on the concrete, staining the front of her father's shirt, trickling down the corner of his mouth as the life faded from his eyes. Tears had brimmed in hers that day as she'd ran from that building, narrowly escaping in time.

The outer door of the warehouse slammed shut – eerily sounding like the fateful explosion that had led to her disappearance. She blinked, realizing she was finally alone with Sloane – alone to carry out this final task.

Her breath moved noisily in and out of her lungs as she fought to stave off the urge to end his life quickly and painlessly. A man like Sloane didn't deserve slow. He deserved to feel the full extent of pain she'd felt and then some.

"So, it comes down to this?" he asked calmly, as if this were an everyday conversation.

Sydney shot him a look of annoyance. "You're under the impression that you deserve anything less?"

He shrugged. "I thought you'd died in that warehouse explosion."

She bared her teeth slightly as she crossed the distance between them with angry, purposeful strides. "I know you did. I know _everyone_ did." She squatted to his eye level, her arms resting loosely on her knees. "But I'm still very much alive, Sloane."

_Even if most of me died in that blast. _

"I have to say I felt quite terrible when I received the confirmation of Jack's death," he shook his head remorsefully. She felt the blood boiling beneath her skin. He canted his head and looked up at her.

"It's such a shame that he had to be in that building when it blew."

"It was your false intel that led the CIA there, you bastard," Sydney seethed. "Just like that plane crash months before. Most of my closest colleagues died in that _accident_. I still wonder how it was determined to have been faulty wiring."

With all pretenses between them gone, Sloane sat up straighter and dug his heels into the concrete. The careful, almost fatherly mask he would normally afford her had duly made itself scarce. Left in its place was a hard, caustic look that spoke of the true evil within. Finally, a bit of vindication for her and all those who were no longer here – granted, a bit warped and twisted, since only her eyes were left to bear witness.

"Surely you don't blame me for a plane crash that was deemed an accident? Really, Sydney, you give me more credit than is due."

She shook her head – and missed seeing the tip of a blade pushing out the sole of his boot. Before her gaze centered back on him, he kicked out and slashed her forearm, knocking her gun from her grip. Using her crouching position to advantage, Sydney pushed herself backward, sliding away from Sloane across the floor.

Sloane stood up before her and removed the knife fully from his boot. Black hilt in hand, he slowly stalked toward her in a half crouch. Her gun lay out of reach to them both and ceased to be an option.

She ignored the flow of blood on her arm and also stood, facing her approaching opponent head-on.

"Even if you make it past me, you won't get far," she informed him quietly.

Two steps closer. A glint of thin, double-edged silver flashed as he passed directly under a light. "I'm not going to let this prophecy dictate how I die, Sydney."

She stepped sideways, watching him follow. "I don't think you have a choice in the matter."

"Oh, I do," he said adamantly as he forced forward, thrusting the knife at her in a fast, fluid swipe.

Sydney sucked in her stomach as she moved back, the faint whoosh of motion reaching her ears. Sloane came in again – faster, stronger – but this time she was ready. She lifted her left foot and connected hard with his wrist. The pointy toe of her mules stabbed his skin and he flinched, losing the solid hold he had on the hilt.

She moved in closer and backhanded him with a force that knocked him down to the ground on his hands and knees. His hand reached for the knife again and she met him, falling to the ground to procure the blade. Sloane managed to flip her onto her back for a mere second, slamming his forehead maliciously into her jaw, but Sydney's feet quickly gained purchase on the smooth concrete and once again she dominated the struggle.

It was nearly a farce of a fight, considering her skill and his.

She had been too aware of the disparity as she twisted Sloane over on the floor and rolled on top of him – but she would not relent.

Seconds later, the hilt was securely in her hands. Breathing hard, she bent her knees and lifted her legs alongside his ribcage, pressing her forearm and the knife into his throat.

She caressed his throat with the blade of her knife. How easy this would be to spill his blood and watch him die slowly. She let the knife bite into his skin just to get a taste of what it'd be like. Several drops of blood beaded on the blade and ran down, dripping like teardrops onto Sloane's shirt. Her hand tightened on the hilt of the knife.

_"Sydney… End this."_

His eyes bulged in their sockets as he expended the last of his energy in fight. In that instant, she changed her mind.

Slow or quick, he just needed to go.

Sydney pushed back on her heels and stood, throwing the knife off into the far corner of the room. Sloane sat up on his elbows and watched as she walked over to her gun. It felt good, right, in her hand as she gripped the butt. Turning toward him, she felt a lightness flutter in her body.

She let out a bark of laughter as an indescribable feeling swept through her. She barely recognized it. Relief. Tenfold. Years of it encased in her skin and embedded in her being were let go with one look down the barrel of her gun.

It's _over_. She'd finally ended it.

Sloane's eyes narrowed slightly in a mute question, but he'd only get one answer from her. Swiping at the wisps of hair that had come adrift in their fight with one hand, Sydney let out a heavy sigh and put a smile on her face that came much more easily than she thought it would.

"I told you I'd be smiling," she said, as her finger curled into the gun.

Without blinking or flinching, she pulled the trigger.

_For all of you. _

---------------

_"__To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world . . ."_

Dawn rose on the first day of the rest of her life in a manner no different than those before. On the surface, this sunrise resembled every other Swiss morning she'd witnessed – a wash of stark colors bursting forth, gradually brightening in a transformation that touched on many colors of the spectrum. But beneath the immediate layers, there was a newness enhancing her sense of calm – similar to a rebirth.

They watched the dark clouds billowing into the lightening sky together. Thick and black, the puffs grew and dispersed with the same ferocious vengeance once shown at different times by both the people sitting idly, a few buildings away, as they watched.

A vengeance they'd exacted together quite superbly.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sydney could see Sark leaning against the bench, legs crossed, one arm resting on the back with his fingers a scant inch away from touching her shoulder. Both her elbows were hooked over the back and she kept tonguing the blood off the corner of her mouth where Sloane had struck her.

Satisfaction and peace seeped into her body, relaxing her – washing most of her pain and heartache away.

Sark shifted his stance and cleared his throat, stealing her attention away from the morning.

"Apropos our original agreement, I was hoping you'd change your mind and take this," he said, handing her a slim white envelope.

Sydney looked at his proffered hand and the envelope, then closed her eyes and shook her head. "Sark, I told you I don't need your money. My parents set me up just fine before they died."

"So you've said," he replied, hand still extended. He tapped her bare knee with the corner of the envelope when she didn't take it and added uncomfortably, "Please, Sydney. Appease me on this. You more than earned your share."

"Sark…" She held his unwavering gaze for a moment and sighed. Stubbornness on her part would keep both of them here all day and night. She relented with a nod, taking the envelope from his hand in a gesture that felt too final.

She felt a dull ache forming behind her eyes, and she immediately detested herself for it. There was no way she'd cry over this – over him. Even if separating after all these months smote clear down to her soul, she'd be strong. Her eyes started to burn the longer the goodbye was drawn out, but she couldn't bring herself to leave first.

"What will you do now?" Sydney asked hesitantly, through a tight throat.

Sark gave her a brief, casual perusal before looking back up at the smoke. "Find a place to stay," then sniffed before adding, "Some place warm." His voice took on a reflective quality, but whether from his plans or the fact that the building was nearly done smoking, she didn't know. "Set some roots. Lay off the traveling for a while."

He glanced over at her, "You?"

_I don't know._

"The same."

He nodded and moments later, leaned forward to get up. Picking his bag up from off the ground, he stood to leave.

Sydney squinted up at him, trying to keep this light, trying damn hard to keep him from meaning anything more to her than he already did. "Thank you, Sark. For everything." She discreetly cleared her throat before adding, "I couldn't have done this without you."

He seemed to be looking down and just left of her eyes, responding with a, "Likewise." Reaching into his bag, she watched him remove her slim book then hand it over. "You left this behind, in the suite."

Her heart skipped a beat, realizing that she had nearly left it. "I can't believe I forgot this," Sydney said, reverently grasping the item in her hand. "Thank you."

He gave her a curt nod. "So long, Sydney."

With two shaky hands that she had to force to stay firm, she placed the book on her lap. "Good-bye, Sark."

Sydney waited until she knew he'd be far enough away before she let her fingers tightly curl around the book. There was a suspicious dull pain in her chest, and she took a deep breath in case it was lack of oxygen.

It didn't help.

A sharp sting pricked her index finger and she looked down at the tip, noticing a thin paper cut. Turning the book on its end, she discovered the edge of a small card protruding from the pages and pulled it out. An elegant, single hand-painted rose – caught halfway between a tight bud and full bloom – sat lonely on the cover. She traced the drawn blood-red petals with the pad of her other index finger first, then moved down the long, thornless stem before taking a deep breath.

Her entire body pulsed with nervousness as she flipped open the card – and then that was forgotten as the burn behind her eyes intensified.

_"There is a flower . . . I think that she has tamed me . . ."_

After she'd taken the briefest look, her hand flattened the card, snapping it shut tightly. The scene was so familiar her breath hitched and held in her throat. A war began brewing inside her head – one of decisions and ramifications and ties forged and what the hell was she going to do with her life now that it was fixed?

Black and white. Not an easy decision this time, Syd, she chastised herself.

But why wasn't it?

She clutched the card tightly between her fingers and closed her eyes, knowing that by now he was at least a few hundred feet away, maybe even already to his vehicle. He was on his way to leaving her.

_"What have you got to lose, Sydney?"_

Tucking her book securely under her arm, Sydney stood up to chase after him. But when she spun around, her body faltered.

Sark.

He stood less than thirty feet away, with his face coolly guarded. Hands stuffed in his pant pockets – like he felt the need to keep control of them – and with his head slightly downcast, he looked the picture of humility. She smiled inside, knowing that his confidence in her coming after him pretty much negated all of that.

After a slight hesitation, she slipped the note back into the book and calmly walked over to him, her expression equally unrevealing.

"So," Sydney said quietly, once she stood before him.

"So," Sark replied.

She turned toward his vehicle, glanced sideways at him for a second, then began walking. Sark easily fell in step beside her. "Some place warm, you say?" Sydney asked as they reached his car.

He laughed lightly as he opened the passenger door for her. "Yes, some place warm."

_"It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."_

_Fin _


End file.
